


A Dragon in Sand

by bythunder



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Jon Sand, N plus A equals J, R plus L equals J, accidental half-sibling incest, as in: Jon is Ashara Dayne's son, kissing cousins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 22:08:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12757128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bythunder/pseuds/bythunder
Summary: At a tourney for the Crown Prince’s nameday, Jon Sand, natural son of Ashara Dayne, falls, quite literally, for Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.





	A Dragon in Sand

 

 

There hadn’t been a tourney of this scale since before the fall of the Targaryens. The tourney that signaled the beginning of the end for the dragons. Where Prince Rhaegar Targaryen crowned Lady Lyanna Stark his Queen of Love and Beauty before stealing her away in the night and Robert Baratheon started a war to get her back. That was nearly twenty years ago now and in the intervening years, not once had all the great houses gathered together like that again.

But the Crown Prince was fast approaching his sixteenth nameday, not a boy any longer but a man grown. To celebrate, King Robert invited damn near every soul in the kingdoms to King’s Landing for a tourney grander than anyone had known before or likely would again. All the pomp of the crown, backed by the wealth of the Lannisters, how could anything ever match its splendor?

The reason for the tourney didn’t much matter to Jon so long as he was allowed to compete. He’d earned his spurs over a year ago and was ready to prove himself. There had been the odd tilt here and there in Dorne, but the Prince’s Tourney was another beast entirely. All of the greatest knights from all corners of the kingdom were here and whoever won this would be known as the best in Westeros. And the champion’s purse was no small thing either. A man could get far on fifty thousand gold dragons. Jon was already spending the coin in his head. A new set of armor, a fresh young horse, perhaps he could use the gold to travel, hire a ship and see the Free Cities… Oh, yes, he could get far indeed.

But he needed to win first.

The crowd was thrumming, the anticipation for the next tilt was palpable. By now the weaker riders had been weeded out and those left were the best riders in the realm. And Jon intended to prove himself the best of the best. Mother had warned him that these Northern lords might take offense being beaten by a bastard. Jon had only laughed and said they’d better not let themselves be beat then. Their prejudices were their own and Jon sat a horse as well as any trueborn knight. He’d earned his spurs, same as any of them, and he wasn’t going to let years of training go to waste just because the nature of his birth.

His opponent sat atop a large chestnut destrier. The red and white checks of his surcoat told Jon his house, not that Jon ever had a head for such things. Their sigils all looked the same covered in dirt. When the knight’s squire passed him his lance, Jon took up his own. He knocked his visor down and readied himself. As soon as the flag was dropped, he dug his heels into his steed’s side and took off flying down the lane. The head of his lance was perfectly aligned with his opponent’s shield and from Jon’s reckoning, his opponent was a holding a good foot too high and making no move to correct it. They were about to collide when, just over his opponent’s left shoulder, a flash of copper caught Jon’s eye. A beautiful head of auburn curls turned to give way to the most stunning face he’d ever seen. Alabaster skin framing wide blue eyes and a perfect pink pout. Just the sight of the girl knocked the breath out of him.

Although, that might have been the fall from his horse. He didn’t even realized he’d been knocked down until his cousin Ned appeared above him, frantically waving a hand in front of his face. It took several long moments for the ringing in his ears to die down enough for Jon to hear Ned’s frantic cries of, “Are you alright? Jon? Can you stand?”

“I’m _fine_ , Ned. Shove off.” Jon sat up and ripped off his helm. His back ached something fierce and he couldn’t take more than the shallowest of breaths. But he didn’t care about that, not anymore than he cared about losing the joust. That’s not entirely true, he cared about losing. His opponent, a lordling announced as ‘Hardyng’, was crowing his victory in fronts of the crowds who cheered loudly to see the bastard bested, but worse than that, worse than losing the winner’s purse, was the realization that he wouldn’t be able to name his Queen of Love and Beauty. The very moment he spotted her, he’d lost the right to crown her. Damn it all to each of the seven hells!

With Ned’s help, Jon made it back to his tent and stripped of his armor. After the maester cleared him for injuries, some bruising along his backside, but thankfully nothing broken, Jon dressed and joined the spectators in the stands. He kept his eyes open for his Queen of Love and Beauty, but the only copper curls he could see belonged to a man his own age and a young boy beside him, sitting in a box further down.

“What happened, Jon? You were doing so well,” Mother asked as he took the empty seat beside her.

“Sun caught my eyes. I couldn’t see properly.”

She graciously neglected to point out that the sun was high enough in the sky not to cause an issue. Ashara Dayne was good that way, not to call a man out on his lies to spare his pride, although she could never help that little knowing upturn of her lips. “You’ll do better in the melee, I’m sure.”

Jon could only grunt in agreement. He had been looking forward to the melee. As well as he sat a horse, he wielded his sword even better. The melee’s purse was as good as his. But everyone knew that all the real honor came from winning the joust. It wasn’t only that he’d wanted to win, every man on the lists wanted to win, but Jon knew that he could have. He was good, damn good. Since he was old enough to hold a lance, he’d been knocking the other boys in Starfall into the dust. He’d won a number of smaller tilts hosted around Dorne, where they cared more about his skill with a lance than the name Sand. But this was his first _real_ tourney. He wanted to use this opportunity to prove himself. He was eight-and-ten now. It was high time for him to leave his mother’s house, as much as he loved his home, and he knew that proving his skills here would open him up to a larger world. One of these lords could very well be looking to hire men to his household guard, or maybe even need a new master-at-arms. Jon dared not hope that there’d be an opening in the Kingsguard soon. Barristan Selmy was in good health yet, but he was approaching seventy. If he attracted the King’s notice now, then mayhaps in a few years when…

Jon dismissed the morbid thought before he let himself get carried away. Ser Barristan was a hero, one of the greatest knights ever to wear the white cloak. He should be praying to the Seven to keep the Stranger at bay. And what does it matter anyway, now that he’s lost. No one would ask for his service if he could only rise to the middle of the ranks.

Jon sat through the next few tilts, watching without observing. His enthusiasm had been knocked out of him with his fall. It was aggravating sitting spectator while lesser knights ranked higher than he did. By the time Ser Loras Tyrell unhorsed the Hardyng knight, Jon had lost interest entirely. He made excuses to his mother and dismissed himself, seeking better entertainment among the merchants and tradesmen. At the blacksmith’s tent, Jon eyed a gilt broadsword with longing but settled himself with a plain dagger instead. _A champion could afford a new sword_. Jon wanted to be angry, but really, there was no one to blame for his loss but himself.

Well, and _her_. Though likely as not she was only a figment of his imagination, the excitement and exhaustion of the tourney making his mind conjure up images of impossibly pretty girls. _And even if she is real, what then?_ There were thousands of people flooding the tourney grounds, even if she were there, it was unlikely that he would be able to find her again. It’s not like he could just look up and she’d be standing right there across the way, perusing a stall selling fine silks and laces and—

Jon rubbed at his lying eyes, but no, she was really there, only a few steps away. She looked even more radiant at this nearness and he felt as if he’d been knocked from his horse all over again. Steeling his confidence, he crossed the distance between them and called out to her. “May I have your name, my lady?”

She raised a lofty brow as she turned her nose up at him. If Jon didn’t know she was highborn before, he certainly knew it now. Only noble women knew how to make that face. “And who are you, _ser_?”

“I am Jon Sand, of Starfall. And you, my lady, cost me the champion’s purse. Your name is the least you can do to make it up to me.”

“Ser Harrold knocked you from your horse, not me.”

 “Aye, but had you not stood up in the crowd, looking like the Maiden herself, I would’ve been able to keep my eye on Ser Harrold and it would’ve been him in the dirt, not me.”

Her expression softened and his compliment brought a tinge of pink to her cheeks. “…I am Lady Sansa Stark, daughter of Warden of the North, Lord Eddard, and Lady Catelyn, of Winterfell. –And I’m sorry for your fall. I was hoping you’d win. You rode better than any of them.”

Jon dismissed her apology. “What’s a few thousand dragons compared to your smile.”

Lady Sansa ducked her head down, allowing her hair to cover the rising color in her cheeks. Jon wanted to reach out and tuck it behind her ear, stop the offending locks from blocking his view. But such an action might be too forward, especially from a man of his station to a woman of hers. But he couldn’t stop himself from touching her altogether. Acting of its own accord, Jon’s hand came to rest on her elbow. That brought her eyes back up to his and his mouth went dry. He wanted to drown in the color of her eyes. “Ser Jon?” she prompted when he spent too long staring.

“…Dance with me.”

“Here?”

“No. Tonight. At the feast. I- I would very much like the pleasure of a dance, my lady.” Jon hadn’t completely forgotten all of his courtesies.

“I’m not sure my septa would approve.”

“I’m not asking your septa, now, am I?”

Lady Sansa giggled then, and Jon knew he had her. “I’ll look for you there.”

“I shan’t keep you waiting long,” he promised.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jon kept true to his word. He wasn’t the first to dance with her that evening. She had an obligation to entertain the whims of the lordlings present, but after watching her stumble through four songs with unworthy partners, Jon could wait no longer. When the music broke, Jon claimed her from her companion, a sandy-haired highborn that tripped over his tongue as much as he tripped over his own feet.

“Why, Ser Jon, I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me,” Sansa jested with a smile and a curtesy while he bowed in return, observing the formalities that preluded the dance.

“May I live to be a hundred, I could never forget you,” he replied as he gathered her in his arms and began to lead her across the floor to the strains of The Bear and the Maiden Fair.

It was completely scandalous. The way he held her tightly against him, his hand which should be at her waist resting much lower at her hip, how he refused to pass her off when the dance dictated they switch partners. If her septa could see her now! Oh, she would drag her out of the hall by her ear and give her a scolding worse than any even Arya received. Proper ladies don’t behave such! But proper ladies also don’t dance with bastards, Sansa thought to herself with a self-satisfied grin as Jon spun her around again, leaving her dizzy and giggling against his chest.

“What amuses you so, _my lady_?” His lips brushed against the shell of her ear, and despite the heat in the hall, a shiver ran down her spine.

“I was just thinking how nice it is to have a dance partner who doesn’t step on my toes.”

“Tell me the name of any man who hurt you and I’ll duel him for your honor.”

“For the honor of my bruised toes?”

“For any slight against you, it would be a worthy cause.”

She laughed but Jon hadn’t meant it as a jest. He’d only know her the length of the afternoon, but he already knew that Sansa was the kind of woman men went to war for. To win her hand, to defend her honor, to vanquish her enemies, anything as to earn her favor. Lucky Jon, though, he only had to fall from his horse to get her attention. And now that he had it, he wasn’t going to relinquish it. In fact, he wanted more of it.

“Lady Sansa, you are completely flushed.” He wrapped her hand in the crook of his elbow and held it fast against his side. “It would be unchivalrous of me not to escort you outside for some fresh air.” Jon lead Sansa, twisting and weaving their way through the dancers, towards the doors, but before reaching them, he pulled her into a side hallway instead, one the servants used to move between the kitchens and the hall unobtrusively. It was small and dimly lit, but it was quiet and, most important of all, away from prying eyes.

“Ser Jon, what are we doing here?” Sansa asked with a breathless giggle.

“I wanted a place to kiss you.” He cupped her cheek in his rough palm, pressed her back against the cool stones. His lips were only a hair’s breadth away from hers when he stopped to ask, “May I?”

She didn’t respond or wait for him to move first. Instead she close the minute gap between them herself, inelegantly knocking her mouth against his in her haste. Her kisses weren’t that of a novice,  but there was still a sense of inexperience and when he dared to move his tongue against the seam of her lips, she pulled away with a gasp. He very nearly apologized when he saw her lick at her lips, the same spot he had tasted just a moment ago. “…Is that how people kiss in Dorne?” Sansa asked, suddenly shy.

“It’s how lovers kiss.”

“Is that what we are, Jon? Lovers?”

“If you’ll have me.”

A small nod of the head was all the invitation he needed. He guided her lips back to his and lost himself in the feel of her, the warmth of her skin through the thin silk of her dress, the sound of her breathy sighs as he moved from her mouth to place kisses along her neck. Oh, what bliss!

Jon had just coaxed her leg up and around his hip when they were interrupted by the sound of a hundred thundering footsteps. The fleet of servants making their way through the corridor to serve the next course of the meal. Sansa pulled away from him before they were caught, smoothing her hair and straightening her skirts, as if she could hide the evidence of their indiscretion, but there was nothing she could do to cover the flush in her cheeks and her kiss-swollen lips. Jon felt a smug satisfaction at being the one to make her so undone, although there was another sort of satisfaction that he’d been unable to achieve. He discreetly adjusted himself in his breeches as he followed Sansa out of the corridor and back into the Great Hall. Sneaking away to another secluded corner was unlikely, but Jon wasn’t done with her yet. He captured her hand in his, about to begin another dance, when someone called her name. Jon cursed, ready to challenge this new suitor, but Sansa stilled him with a touch.

“It’s my brother. I should go before Father starts to wonder where I’ve gotten off to.” She dipped in a curtsey, ever the lady, and said, “Thank you for the dance, Ser Jon.”

“My pleasure. I hope to have the chance again.”

“Tomorrow?” Sansa offered. “Come find me tomorrow.”

“After the melee, I’m yours,” Jon promised and they parted with a last, chaste, kiss on the back of her hand.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts and comments are always appreciated!


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